“To wound me?” repeated Zulima, recovering from the sort of dream into which his voice had cast her, and drawing her hand away. “Oh, everybody says things to wound me, I think!” “But I never have.” “No, I believe not,” replied Zulima, listlessly; “I believe not.” “And never will,” urged the young man, regarding her with a look of deep tenderness. “I don’t know,” was the faint reply, and Zulima’s face fell back on her folded arms again. The young man arose and began to pace up and down the room; many a change passed over his features meanwhile, and he cast his eye from time to time upon the motionless figure of Zulima, with an expression that revealed all the hidden love, the wild devotion with which he regarded her. He sat down again and took her passive hand. She did not attempt to withdraw it. She did not even seem to know that it was in his. “Do you know how I love you—how, with my whole life and strength, I worship you, Zulima?” he said. “There is nothing on earth that I would not do, could it give you a moment’s happiness.” Zulima slowly unfolded her arms, and lifting her head, looked earnestly in his face with her eyes. She did not seem to understand him. “Oh, you must have seen how I love you,” he said passionately. Zulima smiled—oh, what a mocking smile! how full of wild anguish it was! “Another!” she said; “so now another loves me.” “No human being ever loved as I love you, Zulima,” said the young man, in that pure, sweet voice, which had so affected her before. “That is a marvel,” said Zulima, with a bitter smile. “Others have loved me so well. You do not know how others have loved me.” “I do not wish to know any thing except how I can make you happier than you are, Zulima.” “If you wish to make me happy, do not even mention love to me again. The very word makes me faint,” said Zulima. “I am ill—I suffer. Do not, I pray you, talk this way to me. I can not bear it.” “I will say nothing that can distress you,” replied the young man gently, but with a look of grief. Zulima reached forth her hand. It was cold and trembling. “Farewell!” she said, very kindly; “I shall go away to-morrow. Farewell!” He would not release her hand. “You are not going far—you will return in a few days? Promise me that you are not saying farewell forever.” “I do not know—the Father in heaven only knows what will become of me; but you have been kind to me—very. You have respected my unprotected lot. You did not know how wrong it was to love me. I can not blame you. When I say farewell thus, I much fear that it is to the only true friend that I have in the world. You could not wish me to feel more regret than I do. Is it not casting away all the unselfish kindness—all the real friendship that I have known for a long, long time?” “But this love—this idolatry, rather?” persisted the young man; “must it be forever hopeless? Shall I never see you again?”